The following days as they began to pass were miserable. Vandover had
never known until now how much he loved his father, how large a place he
had filled in his life. He felt horribly alone now, and a veritable
feminine weakness overcame him, a crying need to be loved as his father
had loved him, and also to love some one as he himself had loved his
father. Worst of all, however, was his loneliness. He could think of no
one who cared in the least for him; the very thought of Turner Ravis or
young Haight wrought in him an expression of scorn. He was sure that he
was nothing to them, though they were the ones whom he considered his
best friends.
Another cause of misery was the fact that his father's death in leaving
him alone had also thrown him upon his own resources. Now he would have
to shoulder responsibilities which hitherto his father had assumed, and
decide questions which until now his father had answered.
However, he felt that his father's death had sobered him as nothing
else, not even Ida's suicide, had done. The time was come at length for
him to take life seriously. He would settle down now to work at his art.
He would go to Paris as his father had wished, and devote himself
earnestly to painting. Yes, the time was come for him to steady himself,
and give over the vicious life into which he had been drifting.
But it was not long before Vandover had become accustomed to his
father's death, and had again rearranged himself to suit the new
environment which it had occasioned. He wondered at himself because of
the quickness with which he had recovered from this grief, just as
before he had marvelled at the ease with which he had forgotten Ida's
death. Could it be true, then, that nothing affected him very deeply?
Was his nature shallow?
However, he was wrong in this respect; his nature was not shallow. It
had merely become deteriorated.
Two days after his father's death Vandover went into the Old Gentleman's
room to get a certain high-backed chair which had been moved there from
his own room during the confusion of the funeral, and which, pending
the arrival of the trestles, had been used to support the coffin.
As he was carrying it back his eye fell upon a little heap of objects
carefully set down upon the bureau. They were the contents of the Old
Gentleman's pockets that the undertaker had removed when the body was
dressed for burial.
Vandover turned them over, sadly interested in them. There was the
watch, some old business letters and envelopes covered with memoranda,
his fountain-pen, a couple of cigars, a bank-book, a small amount of
change, his pen-knife, and one or two tablets of chewing-gum.
Vandover thrust the pen and the knife into his own pocket. The
bank-book, letters, and change he laid away in his father's desk, but
the cigars and the tablets of gum, together with the crumpled
pocket-handkerchief that he found on another part of the dressing-case,
he put into the Old Gentleman's hat, which he had hidden on the top
shelf of his clothes closet. The watch he hung upon a little brass
thermometer that always stood on his centre table. He even wound up the
watch with the resolve never to let it run down so long as he should
live.
The keys, however, disturbed him, and he kept changing them from one
hand to the other, looking at them very thoughtfully. They suggested to
him the inquiry as to whether or no his father had made a will, and how
much money he, Vandover, could now command. One of the keys was a long
brass key. Vandover knew that this unlocked a little iron box that from
time out of mind had been screwed upon the lower shelf of the clothes
closet in his father's room. It was in this box that the Old Gentleman
kept his ready money and a few important papers.
For a long time Vandover stood undecided, changing the keys about from
one hand to the other, hesitating before opening this iron box; he could
not tell why. By and by, however, he went softly into his father's room,
and into the clothes closet near the head of the bed. Holding the key
toward the lock, he paused listening; it was impossible to rid his mind
of the idea that he was doing something criminal. He shook himself,
smiling at the fancy, assuring himself of the honesty of the thing, yet
opening the box stealthily, holding the key firmly in order that it
might not spring back with a loud click, looking over his shoulder the
while and breathing short through his nose.
The first thing that he saw inside was a loaded revolver, the sudden
view of which sent a little qualm through the pit of his stomach. He
took it out gingerly, holding it at arm's length, throwing open the
cylinder and spilling out the cartridges on the bed, very careful to let
none of them fall on the floor lest they should explode.
Next he drew out the familiar little canvas sack. In it were
twenty-dollar gold-pieces, the coin that used to be "Good for the
Masses." Behind that was about thirty dollars in two rolls, and last of
all in an old, oblong tin cracker-box a great bundle of papers. A list
of these papers was pasted on one end of the box. They comprised deeds,
titles, insurance policies, tax receipts, mortgages, and all the papers
relating to the property. Besides these there was the will.
He took out this box, laying it on the shelf beside him. He was closing
the small iron safe again very quietly when all at once, before he could
think of what he was doing, he ran his hand into the mouth of the canvas
sack, furtively, slyly, snatched one of the heavy round coins, and
thrust it into his vest pocket, looking all about him, listening
intently, saying to himself with a nervous laugh, "Well, isn't it mine
anyway?"
In spite of himself he could not help feeling a joy in the possession of
this money as if of some treasure-trove dug up on an abandoned shore. He
even began to plan vaguely how he should spend it.
However, he could not bring himself to open any of the papers, but sent
them instead to a lawyer, whom he knew his father had often consulted. A
few days later he received a typewritten letter asking him to call at
his earliest convenience.
It was at his residence and not at his office that Vandover saw the
lawyer, as the latter was not well at the time and kept to his bed.
However, he was not so sick but that his doctor allowed him to transact
at least some of his business. Vandover found him in his room, a huge
apartment, one side entirely taken up by book-shelves filled with works
of fiction. The walls were covered with rough stone-blue paper, forming
an admirable background to small plaster casts of Assyrian
_bas-reliefs_ and large photogravures of Renaissance portraits.
Underneath an enormous baize-covered table in the centre of the room
were green cloth bags filled apparently with books, padlocked tin
chests, and green pasteboard deed-boxes. The lawyer was sitting up in
bed, wearing his dressing-gown and occasionally drinking hot water from
a glass. He was a thin, small man, middle-aged, with a very round head
and a small pointed beard.
"How do you do, Mr. Vandover?" he said, very pleasantly as Vandover
passed by the servant holding open the door and came in.
"How do you do, Mr. Field?" answered Vandover, shaking his hand. "Well,
I'm sorry to see you like this."
"Yes," answered the lawyer, "I'm--I have trouble with my digestion
sometimes, more annoying than dangerous, I suppose. Take a chair, won't
you? You can find a place for your hat and coat right on the table
there. Well," he added, settling back on the pillows and looking at
Vandover pleasantly, "I think you've grown thinner since the last time I
saw you, haven't you?"
"Yes," answered Vandover grimly, "I guess I have."
"Yes, yes, I suppose so, of course," responded the lawyer with a vague
air of apology and sympathy. "You have had a trying time of it lately,
taking it by and large. I was _very_ painfully shocked to hear of your
father's death. I had met him at lunch hardly a week before; he was a
far heartier man than I was. Eat? You should have seen--splendid
appetite. He spoke at length of you, I remember; told me you expected to
go abroad soon to study painting; in fact, I believe he was to go to
Paris with you. It was very sad and very sudden. But you know we've all
been expecting--been fearing--that for some time."
They both were silent for a moment, the lawyer looking absently at the
foot-board of the bed, nodding his head slowly from time to time,
repeating, "Yes, sir--yes, sir." Suddenly he exclaimed, "Well--now,
let's see." He cleared his throat, coming back to himself again, and
continued in a very businesslike and systematic tone:
"I have looked over your father's papers, Mr. Vandover, as you
requested me to, and I have taken the liberty of sending for you to let
you know exactly how you stand."
"That's the idea, sir," said Vandover, very attentive, drawing up his
chair.
Mr. Field took a great package of oblong papers from the small table
that stood at the head of his bed, and looked them over, adjusting his
eyeglasses. "Well, now, suppose we take up the real property first," he
continued, drawing out three or four of these papers and unfolding them.
"All of your father's money was invested in what we call 'improved
realty.'"
He talked for something over an hour, occasionally stopping to answer a
question of Vandover's, or interrupting himself to ask him if he
understood. At the end it amounted to this:
The bulk of the estate was residence property in distant quarters of the
city. Some twenty-six houses, very cheaply built, each, on an average,
renting for twenty-eight dollars. When all of these were rented, the
gross monthly income was seven hundred and twenty-eight dollars. At this
time, however, six were vacant, bringing down the gross receipts per
month to five hundred and sixty dollars. The expenses, which included
water, commissions for collecting, repairs, taxes, interest on
insurance, etc., when expressed in the terms of a monthly average,
amounted to one hundred and eighty-six dollars.
"Well, now, let's see," said Vandover, figuring on his cuff, "one
hundred and eighty-six from five hundred and sixty leaves me a net
monthly income of three hundred and eighty-four--no, seventy-four. Three
hundred and seventy-four dollars."
The lawyer shook his head while he drank another glass of hot water:
"You see," he said, wiping his moustache in the hollow of his palm, "you
see, we haven't figured on the mortgages yet."
"Mortgages?" echoed Vandover.
"Yes," answered Mr. Field, "when I spoke of expenses I was basing them
upon the monthly statements of Adams & Brunt, your father's agents. But
they never looked after the mortgages. Your father acted directly with
the banks in that matter. I find that there are mortgages that cover the
entire property, even the homestead. They are for 6-1/2 and 7 per cent.
In some cases there are two mortgages on the same piece of property."
"Well," said Vandover.
"Well," answered the lawyer, "the interest on these foots up to about
two hundred and ninety dollars a month."
Vandover made another hasty calculation on his cuff, and leaned back in
his chair staring at the lawyer, saying:
"Why, that leaves eighty-four dollars a month, net."
"Yes," assented Field. "I made it that, too."
"Why, the governor used to allow _me_ fifty a month," returned Vandover,
"just for pocket money."
"I'm afraid you mustn't expect anything like that, now, Mr. Vandover,"
replied Field, smiling. "You see, when your father was alive and
pursuing his profession, he made a comfortable income besides that which
he derived from his realty. His law business I consider to have been
excellent when you take everything into consideration. He often made
five hundred dollars a month at it. Such are the figures his papers
show. He could make you a handsome allowance while he was alive, but all
that is stopped now!"
"Well, but didn't he--didn't he leave any money, any--any--any lump
sum?" inquired Vandover incredulously.
"There was his bank account," answered the other. "You see, he invested
most of his savings in this same realty, and since he stopped building
he seems to have lived right up to his income."
"But eighty-four dollars!" repeated Vandover; "why, look at the house on
California Street where we live. It costs that much to run it, the
servants and all."
"Here's your father's domestic-account book," answered Field, taking it
up and turning the leaves. "One hundred and seventy-five dollars a month
were the average running expenses."
_"One hundred and seventy-five!"_ shouted Vandover, feeling suddenly as
if the ground were opening under him. "Why, great heavens! Mr. Field,
where am I going to get--what am I going to _do_?"
Mr. Field smiled a little. "Well," he said, "you must make up your mind
to live more modestly."
"Modestly?" exclaimed Vandover, scornfully.
"You'll have to rent the house and take rooms."
Vandover gave a gasp of relief.
"I hadn't thought of that," he answered, subsiding at once. "How much
would it bring--the house?"
The lawyer hesitated as to this. "That I could hardly tell you
definitely," he answered, shaking his head. "Adams & Brunt could give
you more exact figures. In fact, I would suggest that you put it into
their hands. California near Franklin, isn't it? Yes; the neighbourhood
isn't what it used to be, you know. Every one wants to live out on
Pacific Heights now. Double house? Yes, well--with the furniture, I
suppose--oh, I don't know--say, a hundred and fifty. But, you know, my
estimate is only guesswork. Brunt is the man you want to see."
"Well," answered Vandover, solaced, "that makes--two thirty-four; that's
more like it. But," he added, hastily, "you say the homestead is
mortgaged as well; how about the interest on that?"
"You needn't be bothered about that," answered Mr. Field. "The interest
on _that_ mortgage is included in the two hundred and ninety that I
spoke of, and the insurance interest on the homestead is included in
Adams & Brunt's statement. That was on the whole estate _with_ the
homestead, you understand? But there is another thing you must look out
for. Most of the mortgages are for one year, and every time they are
renewed there is an expense of between forty and fifty dollars."
"Yes, I see," assented Vandover.
"Now," resumed the lawyer, "here is your father's bank account. He had
in the First National to his credit between nine and ten thousand
dollars; nine thousand seven hundred and ninety, to be exact. His
professional account book shows that there is now due him in bills and
notes eight hundred and thirty dollars; on the debit side he owes in all
nine hundred; the difference, you see, is seventy. Nine thousand seven
hundred and ninety less seventy leaves a balance of nine thousand seven
hundred and twenty. All clear?" he asked, interrupting himself. Vandover
nodded and the other continued:
"Now, your father left a will; here it is. I drew it for him a year ago
last September. He has given fifteen hundred dollars to some cousin in
the southern part of the state, and six hundred to a few charities here
in the city. The remainder, seven thousand five hundred and twenty, and
all the rest of the estate is left to you with the wish that you pursue
your art studies abroad. Brunt, of Adams & Brunt, and myself are
appointed executors. So now, that is just how you stand as far as I can
see: seventy-five hundred dollars in ready money and, if we suppose you
rent the California Street house, income property that nets you two
hundred and thirty-four a month. The will will have to be probated some
time next month and you will have to appear; however, I shall let you
know about that in time."
During the next two weeks Vandover was plunged into the affairs of
business for the first time in his life. It interested and amused him,
and he felt a certain self-importance in handling large sums of money,
and in figuring interest, rents, and percentages. Three days after his
interview with Mr. Field the sale of his father's office effects took
place, and the consequent five hundred dollars Vandover turned over into
the hands of the lawyer, who was already looking for an investment for
the eighty-nine hundred. This matter had given Vandover considerable
anxiety.
"I don't want anything fancy," he said to Field. "No big per cents. and
bigger risks. If I've got to live economically I want something that's
secure. A good solid investment, don't you know, with a fair interest;
that's what I'm looking for."
"Yes," answered the lawyer grimly; "I've been looking for that myself
ever since I was your age."
They both laughed, and the lawyer added: "Has Brunt found a tenant for
the California Street house yet? No? Well, perhaps you had better keep
that five hundred for your running expenses until he does. It will
probably take some time."
"All right," answered Vandover. "There were a couple of women up to look
at the place yesterday, but they wanted to use it for a boarding-house.
I won't hear to that. Brunt says they would ruin it, dead sure."
"I suppose you are looking around, yourself, for rooms?" inquired Mr.
Field. "Have you found anything to suit you?"
"No," answered Vandover, "I have not. I don't like the idea of living
in one of the downtown hotels, and as far as I have looked, the uptown
flats are rather steep. However, I haven't gone around very much as yet.
I've been so busy. Oh, how about the paving of the street in front of
those Bush Street houses of mine? Brunt says that the supervisors have
passed a resolution of intention to that effect. Now shall I let the
city contractor have the job or give it to Brunt's man?"
"Better let the city people do it," advised Field. "They may charge
more, but you needn't pay _them_ for a long time."
By the end of three weeks Vandover had sickened of the whole thing. The
novelty was gone, and business affairs no longer amused him. Besides
this, he was anxious to settle down in some comfortable rooms. It was
now the middle of winter and he had determined that it was not the
season for a European trip. He would wait until the summer before going
to Paris.
Little by little Vandover turned over the supervision and management of
his affairs and his property to Adams & Brunt, declaring that he could
not afford to be bothered with them any longer. This course was much
more expensive and by no means so satisfactory from a business point of
view, but Vandover felt as though the loss in money was more than offset
by his freedom from annoyance and responsibility.
He was eager to get settled. The idea of taking rooms that should be all
his own and that he could fit up to suit his taste attracted him
immensely. Already he saw himself installed in charming bachelor's
apartments, the walls covered with rough stone-blue paper forming an
admirable background for small plaster casts of Assyrian _bas-reliefs_
and photogravures of Velasquez portraits. There would be a pipe-rack
over the mantelpiece, and a window-seat with a corduroy cushion such as
he had had in his room in Matthew's.
Very slowly his father's affairs were settled, and by degrees the estate
began to adjust itself to the new grooves in which it was to run. By the
middle of December everything was beginning to go smoothly, and the day
before Christmas Mr. Field announced to Vandover that he had invested
his eighty-nine hundred in registered U.S. 4 per cents. They had had
several long talks concerning this sum of money, and in the end had
concluded that it would be better to invest it in some such fashion
rather than to take up any of the mortgages that were on the houses.
During the first weeks of the new year the house on California Street
was rented for one hundred and twenty-five dollars to an English
gentleman, the president of a fruit syndicate in the southern part of
the state. There were but three in the family, and though the rent was
below that which Vandover had desired, Brunt advised him to close the
transaction at once, as they were desirable tenants and would probably
stay in the house a long time.
On the last evening which he was to spend in his home, Vandover cast up
his accounts and made out a schedule as to his monthly income.
Rent from realty, net average $ 84.00
Rent from homestead property on California Street 125.00
Interest on U.S. bonds, 4 per cent. 23.00
_______
Total $232.00
In small iron safe $170.00
Received from sale of office effects $500.00
_______
$670.00
Expenses, outstanding bills, lawyer's fees, undertaker's
bill, expenses for collecting, etc 587.00
_______
Balance, January 16th $83.00
Then with a shrug of the shoulders he dismissed the whole burdensome
business from his mind. Brunt would manage his property, sending him
regularly the monthly statement in order to keep him informed. The
English gentleman of the fruit syndicate would add his hundred and
twenty-five, and the 4 per cents., faithfully brooding over his
eighty-nine hundred in the dark of the safety deposit drawer, would
bring forth their little quota of twenty-three with absolute certainty.
Two thirty-two a month. Yes, he was comfortably fixed and was free now
to do exactly as he pleased.
His first object now was to settle down for the winter in some pleasant
rooms. He had decided that he would look for a suite of three--a
bedroom, studio, and sitting-room. The bedroom he was not particular
about, the studio he hoped would have plenty of light from the north,
but the sitting-room _must_ be sunny and overlook the street, else what
would be the use of a window-seat? As to the neighbourhood, he thought
he would prefer Sutter Street anywhere between Leavenworth and Powell.
In the downtown part this street was entirely given over to business
houses; in the far, uptown quarter it was lined with residences; but
between these two undesirable extremes was an intermediate district
where the residences had given place to flats, and the business blocks
to occasional stores. It was a neighbourhood affected by doctors,
dentists, and reputable music-teachers; drug stores occupied many of the
corners, here and there a fine residence still withstood the advance of
business, there were a number of great apartment houses, and even one or
two club buildings.
It was a gay locality, not too noisy, not too quiet. The street was one
of the great arteries of travel between the business and the residence
portions of the city, and its cable-cars were frequented by ladies going
to their shopping or downtown marketing or to and from the matinées.
Acquaintances of Vandover were almost sure to pass at every hour.
He took rooms temporarily at the Palace and at once set about locating
on Sutter Street. He had recourse again to Brunt, who furnished him with
a long list of vacancies in that neighbourhood. Apartment-hunting was an
agreeable pastime to Vandover, though in the end it began to bore him.
Altogether, he visited some fifteen or twenty suites, in each case
trying to fit himself into the rooms, imagining how the window-seat
would look in such a window, how the pipe-rack would show over such a
mantel, just where on such walls the Assyrian _bas-reliefs_ could be
placed to the best advantage, and if his easel could receive enough
steady light from such windows. Then he considered the conveniences, the
baths, the electric light, and the heat.
After a two weeks' search, he had decided upon one of two suites; both
of these were in the desired neighbourhood but differed widely in other
respects.
The first was reasonable enough in the matter of rent, and had even been
occupied by an artist for some three or four years previous. However,
the room that Vandover proposed to use as a sitting-room was small and
had no double windows, thus making the window-seat an impossibility.
There did not seem to be any suitable place for the Assyrian
_bas-reliefs_, and the mantelpiece was of old-fashioned white marble
like the mantelpiece in Mrs. Wade's front parlour, a veritable horror.
It revolted Vandover even to think of putting a pipe-rack over it. These
defects were offset by the studio, a large and splendid room with
hardwood floors and an enormous north light, the legendary studio, the
dream of an artist, precisely such a studio as Vandover had hoped he
would occupy in the Quarter.
The other suite was in a great apartment house, a hotel in fact, but
very expensive, with electric bulbs and bells, and with a tiled bathroom
connecting with the bedroom. The room which he would be obliged to use
as his studio was small, dark, the light coming from the west. But the
sitting-room was perfect. It had the sun all day long through a huge bay
window that seemed to have been made for a window-seat; there were
admirable, well-lighted spaces on the walls for casts and pictures, and
the mantelpiece was charming, extremely high, and made of oak; in a
word, the exact sitting-room that Vandover had in mind. Already he saw
himself settled there as comfortably and snugly as a kernel in a
nutshell. It was true that upon investigation he found that the grate
had been plastered up and the flue arranged for a stove. But for that
matter there were open-grate stoves to be had that would permit the fire
to be seen and that would look just as cheerful as a grate. He had even
seen such a stove in the window of a hardware store downtown, a tiled
stove with a brass fender and with curious flamboyant ornaments of
cast-iron--a jewel of a stove.
For two days Vandover hesitated between these two suites, undecided
whether he should sacrifice his studio for his sitting-room, or his
sitting-room for his studio. At length he came to the conclusion that as
he was now to be an artist a good studio ought to be the first
consideration, and that since he was to settle down to hard, serious
work at last he owed it to himself to have a fitting place in which to
paint; yes, decidedly he would take the suite with the studio. He went
to the agent, told him of his decision, and put up a deposit to secure
the rooms.
The same day upon which he took this decided step he had occasion to
pass by both places in question. As he approached the apartment house
in which the rejected suite was situated it occurred to him to tell the
clerk in the office that he had decided against the rooms; he could take
a last look at them at the same time.
He was shown up to the rooms again, and walked about in the
sitting-room, asking the same questions about the heat, the plumbing,
and the baths. He even went to the window and looked out into the
street. It _was_ a first-rate berth just the same, and how jolly it
would be to lounge in the window-seat of a morning, with a paper, a
cigarette, and a cup of coffee, watching the people on their way
downtown; the women going to their shopping and morning's marketing.
Then all at once he remembered that at most he would only have these
rooms for five months, and reflected that if his whole life was to be
devoted to painting he might easily put up with an inconvenient studio
for a few months. Once at Paris all would be different.
At that the rooms took on a more charming aspect than ever; never had
they appeared cheerier, sunnier, more comfortable; never had the oak
mantel and the tiled stove with the flamboyant ornaments been more
desirable; never had a window-seat seemed more luxurious, never a
pipe-rack more delectable, while at the same time, the other rooms, the
rooms of the big studio, presented themselves to his imagination more
sombre, uncomfortable, and forbidding than ever. It was out of the
question to think of living there; he was angry with himself for having
hesitated so long. But suddenly he remembered the deposit he had already
made; it was ten dollars; for a moment he paused, then dismissed the
matter with an impatient shrug of the shoulders. "So much the worse," he
said. "What's ten dollars?" He made up his mind then and there and went
downstairs, walking on his heels, to tell the clerk that after all he
would engage the rooms from that date.